


A Royally Shit Idea

by Voodoosgirl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Hallucinations, Hearing Voices, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Seizures, Swearing, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22510777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voodoosgirl/pseuds/Voodoosgirl
Summary: Retribution feels decent in the planning until Bucky zigs instead of zags. Night's falling so is the temperature, the radio's crapped out, and some pissed off remnants of Hydra are following his blood filled tracks. All he has is the Voice in his head and the ghosts that bring his seizures. Well and a gun, an altar, and visions of Natasha and Sam. And Steve, always Steve.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 16
Kudos: 24





	1. Pursuit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BootStrap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootStrap/gifts).



> Okay, trying something a bit different, my first free-standing "whump" story. Four chapters posting as fast as I can. IRL work sucks the life out of me. (Sorry for the swear words, reflects the space I'm in lately.)
> 
> I am still working on my big WIP, this short story is part of a promise I made to a reader and a way to refocus on the last part of that bigger piece.
> 
> The bloody footprints courtesy of Pambot3000. 💜❤️️💜Constructive critiques are always welcomed. Thank you so much for visiting. 💜

Photo used with permission by [Lorenzo Colombo](https://unsplash.com/@lollo_169?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText) on [Unsplash](https://unsplash.com/collections/8657294/prompts?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText)

“One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand,” Bucky’s numbering internal, breath drawn long, sighed release quiet aligning with his count, marking time and place and anxiety’s ebbing flow. Mouthing words repeated comfort, lips chapped tender raw, air’s frigid assault.

A mission running beyond the planned forty-eight hours, clock ticking in his head, long past agreed extraction. Stomach’s cramp not for the missing food or water soured pain driven by Steve; bare flesh beneath sweat-stained clothes aching for his touch, tender or rough or feather-light, no matter. A gaze intent burned in memory, his tone grounded in an ear the soothing gone for hours, nearly a day, comm’s failing in mountain’s peaks and valleys. Sanity’s dance with pressured worry at the sight unfolding yards below. A tenuous position lying belly cold-pressed, camouflaged white on crystal bright snow crusting a ridge. Bucky tense studying movement through a rifle’s scope, ominous figures trudging steady progress following his tracks.

“ _This_ _is,_ _was and will forever be known as_ _a_ _royally_ _shit_ _idea._ ” A Voice, not quite a whisper, more embedded; a headline scrolling insidious through counts of three, and tactics and a longing core-deep for a bed disheveled, tight-wrapped safe in Steve’s arms.

Bucky’s mutter a reflex, “I did not ask for your opinion.”

“ _My opinion? That is a direct quote from your no-where-to-be-found boyfriend. What’s his name.”_

“You know his fucking name.” Words groused to a shoulder, hiding frozen breath.

“ _I forgot. Tell me again.”_ The Voice, not a whine, more of a taunt, a dare, a gauntlet purposeful dropped.

“Knock it off. You know his name.” Bucky’s exasperation a given.

“ _Just remind me. A hint, one hint.”_ The demand bounced vexing in his head; upping the ante, a volley, a tit-for-tat predictable.

“No hints.” Bucky firm at first caught up by taut surveillance. Faltering resolve, maybe tired or too easy to tease; a groaned capitulation, “Okay, one hint. Medved. How’s that?”

“ _That’s not a hint. That’s a bear. What’s his name? Just say it, say his name, out-loud, not some damn secret in your fucked up head.”_

Bucky rolling eyes, enough to get his point across, at least for himself, no one to see; disdain, impatience, frustration, call it whatever. A mumble discreet, current circumstances taken into account, an answer drawn out sing-song sarcastic, “You already know his name, why are we even in this conversation.”

Silence for a beat, a pause, a second maybe two not quite three, the Voice sudden snapping _, “Shit. You forgot too. Damn, now how the hell do we get home from this god-forsaken treeless wasteland in the middle of fucking nowhere.”_

Bucky’s sigh escaping louder than he wanted. Head dropped cautious shake; clear the Voice, spill snow from a hood, shake a gaze refocused through the Barrett’s scope. The Voice insidious harassing not real in the technical sense. Not Wilson or Romanova spewing banter across the comms. More a gift, or curse or companion unwanted, maybe needed for a time. A wisp of thought, an uninvited guest sprawled taunting in Bucky’s head. A remnant indisputable from cryo’s isolation and a mind shocked repeated over years, over a lifetime three-fold. The Voice permanent lodged entwined in a mind rebuilding a life nearly lost.

“ _You’re a sniper. Kill them. One, two, three. Then two more. I get it five doesn’t fit your obsession with all things divisible by three but this is an exception. Do whatever creative calculus you need to do to get this done. Get us the hell out of here. Just shoot them. Screw that damn semi-solemn oath, Soldat. Kill those bastards.”_

Bucky’s groan morphed to a growl ending in a word gritted quiet, “Enough.” Sputtered argument too loud, “I’ve got their damn jump drive thing, that’s it, what I came for. Done. No killing.”

Facts stirred with feelings; guilt stealing Bucky’s sleep, penance self-imposed chasing Hydra’s remnants burrowed deep in a village non-descript foot of a mountain Northern Italy. Revenge a wound festering raw, Steve vehement disagreeing. An understanding reached to watch reluctant, wait and hover protective from a distance too far. Bucky not allowing him to walk that path, going it alone insistent, an argument Steve lost before it started.

Eyes closed three seconds, stealing respite from a landscape’s bright monotone, a whisper for himself, “What the hell am I doing arguing with a damned hallucination.” Daily task daunting at times, countering the Voice insidious living in a head occasional chaotic. Hydra’s legacy unwanted, a burden more tolerable with medications, and time and a life engulfed possessive indisputable by Steve. Bucky finding solace in an image floated serene, calming a mind racing, a heart’s tight beating fast. Steve’s smile gentle accepting, mouth’s brushed flirt, palms wide claim of his body, trusted; only those hands allowed to caress skin craving his touch alone.

“ _You might want to get moving, Soldat, if you ever want those big strong fingers on that perky ass of yours again, you better get it in gear, right now.”_

“Fuck. Just, fuck you.” Bucky’s sputter irrational, cursing a Voice intricate internal woven with own thoughts. A rifle sleeved white, cradled familiar, cold flesh delicate flirting with the trigger, twitching revolt against tissue’s freeze, elements exposed, metal hand solid still balancing a barrel long and aimed with not-so-deadly intent. Bucky pulling a breath purposeful long, exhaled against a sleeve, stay hidden in the open. Don’t cough or jerk or let aching groan escape, iced air’s spread in lungs, chest viced tight choking, moisture succumbing to cold inhaled. Eyes’ practiced tracking the movement rapid gaining on his position, steady creeping white-clad figures against sun’s glisten on landscape hazy to an unpracticed eye. Through Barrett’s scope, clear to an assassin’s skill however retired he might call himself.

Stolen data tucked within his jacket, precious safe by Bucky’s heart beating hard for remorse, regret, and Steve. Leaving his target’s base in chaotic disarray not enough to deter their pursuit. His escape hampered by terrain iced over, radio’s signal bouncing erratic. The band’s relentless follow edging closer, ignoring cold and snow and every maneuver Bucky took to throw them off his scent. Their veracity an unfortunate miscalculation.

“ _Overestimation, a serious flaw in your piss-poor plan, your piss-poor perfect plan to be excruciatingly specific. Not perfect any longer. Not by a long shot. Not remotely close. Not...”_

Bucky’s guttural moan barely drowning the Voice. Metal thumb digging a red-lined scrape to his jaw, faint stubble disturbed, pain self-induced; quiet the Voice, focus dragged back to here and now and a task pressing urgent. Conscious quieting a heart-pounding, body braced ready, a glance over his shoulder searching the snow for a path. Dark line of frozen dirt and stone running jagged up the hill, higher ground needed for a radio to work. A mutter with hope wobbling shaken, “Okay Rogers, just like we agreed; no footprints, heading northeast.” Breath shaken anxious, alone in his head with the Voice, not a place he wanted to be for long, not ever. Missing Steve’s voice overpowering, lost to terrain, Bucky’s faith faltering for a second maybe three, “You’re still there, right? You wouldn’t just forget me?” Swallowing dry, throat cold parched, forced imagining Steve, within a fingertip’s reach, listening however quiet, “You’re there. I know you’re there. I know it. Yup, okay, keep moving.”

Bucky’s shimmy cautious to slide down an angle in the slope, less visible to pursuers. Three seconds counting, tick-tick-tick covers the span of muscle’s coil, tendon’s tight pull, abrupt rise, knees to feet to a run crouching silent below his enemy’s line of sight. Steps cautious quick climbing upward, muscles tight-packed willing weight lighter not leaving a trace, eyes sharp focused on a meandering path black shining pools of rock surrounded by snow. The rifle offering balance in flesh fingers, making his way to a peak three clicks across a barren landscape; a back-up rendezvous location. Bucky’s heart craving comfort as he ran methodical forward. Thought’s easy slip to Steve, pale skin freckled shoulders, sun-lightened hair left longer now, gut’s twitch recalling Steve’s taking, mouth’s taste of a kiss and sex and skin, conjuring a memory only days before, feeling like a year; or seventy.

“ _Now is probably not the time for sex dreams, Soldat. There’s a myriad of reasons why Hydra wiped your mind, distraction would be one of them. Your pathetic moral compass another one, Medved-man would be another, the fact that you’re a spectacular pain in the ass when allowed to think, or talk or feel.”_

Head shake sharp dislodge the Voice, an ache chasing from gut to chest to throat. Bucky’s mind quick tripping on a thought, medications zipped in pant’s pocket, the press of the chase stealing time. One word muttered close, “Shit,” as he tried to recall last time he took the pills, fine line walked with the seizures, a remnant of the chair, shocks repeated over years, “Shit, really,” the only answer. No chance to stop, not now, not here, a risk dancing precarious with the reality of escape.

Irritation clicking up a notch or nine, forgetting to take the meds. Bucky finding solace in Steve’s words echoed in a mind losing focus, “I don’t care if you hear a Voice, or ninety-nine voices, Buck. As long as you still hear mine.” A memory held cherished as he ran tenuous quiet towards his goal. Those words spoken intimate, Steve engulfing from behind, their room bathed in moonlight, sweat mingled during sex, his whisper raw sincere heating skin, nape of neck pulling sweat. His following with a tease, gentle kissed in a line down Bucky’s back, ending at the curve, “And you clean the toilet and the fridge and do the dishes; not in that order.” Bucky’s laugh shaken loose by a sudden stumble to his knees, crusted snow collapsing beneath steps, the sound pinging raucous against valley’s walls surrounding. The echo giving him away.

Back on his feet, urgent steps treacherous footing, ice-covered rocks, lurking beneath, full stride now listening to his laugh fading in the hills; terrain uneven rocks to snow to ice. Heart beating harder with the effort, pulse throbbing temple. Sunlight’s glinting at an angle, beginning its descent, hard to see the footing, Bucky losing balance, landing on a knee wrenched stabbing crooked. Breath forced in a grunt, staggering rise, back to the run, pain shooting fire up a thigh, snaked down to his ankle. “Keep moving, piece of cake,” whispered for himself, hearing Steve’s tone and timbre and twinge of beloved snark. Frigid air pulled fast and deep and hungered with the climb, air thinning as he ran, pressured vice across his chest, head-spinning dizzy.

Sharp sound cracking. The pop’s echo a ricochet disorienting, chilled sweat drawn to skin despite cold air. Bucky knowing that sound, long familiar, dread wrapping skeleton fingers to his heart. Body jerking stopped, hope for a miss, a calculation off by a second or an inch. The sound quick followed by pain searing through a thigh, proving him wrong. The bullet tearing cloth and flesh and leaving through and through. Gaze darting downward time slowing down, fire spreading back to front in his leg. Been through this before, thoughts slamming doors, compartmentalize the trauma, pain and pursuit and getting out of there hobbled, miles still to go. Bucky disembodied watching bright crimson stain’s spread on white pants, burst of sprayed droplets, own blood dancing scattered at his feet, wide patterned in the snow.

Time speeding up, bullet’s force tossing Bucky’s body, wild stumble forward, a spin and fall on a shoulder, hard thudding on the ice-encased slope. Muscle and tendon’s screaming ache as he rolled on his back, rifle poised uncanny response muscle memory not failing. Desperate raking the horizon, find the shooter, counter the kill shot he knew would be coming, his name on that bullet. A shadow white on white, in the distance, sun sparkled bright on metal for a flash; long enough, Bucky not needing more than a heartbeat to find his target. Rifle snug to a shoulder, body sliding fast and faster backward down the slope. Forget the oath, hold ragged breath, one-ninth of a second, relent to the Soldier, needing to survive; a finger’s delicate press, one shot ringing loud to soft to loud, white-clad pursuer falling dead.

“ _See how easy that was. Just squeeze the trigger, watch them fall. Stellar shot by the way.”_

No time spent on the Voice or remorse, choice made, done and done, another ghost added to his entourage, cold-stare haunting nights long and sleepless. “What’s one more,” slipping discouraged through a mind muddled with pain and plans and longing for Steve. Bucky clinging to focus intent, still falling real, mind floating above, watching it all play out. Glacial ice too hard, too slippery to stay where he landed, body sliding rough tumble down the embankment to a frozen stretch below, skidding uncontrolled out onto a flat expanse deceptive. Mind’s race hoping it was land, worse case likely water beneath ice too thin to hold his weight crashing awkward. Crack and crunch more foreboding than the sound of the shot, racing thoughts confirmed. Split seconds hanging in the balance, not daring to move, or breath, spider-web pattern growing beneath his weight, heralding the break inevitable.

One rational idea to save the rifle sent skittering across the pond as ice cracked sharp against hips and back and shoulders, his plunge through thin surface sudden, catching breath shuddered knowing what was coming. Heart skipping erratic, cold-thickened waters surrounding body swallowed whole, panic roaring gut to heart to throat, ice covering above. Swirling waters claiming his soul, one word breathed last second, rasped and aching “Steve.”


	2. Harbinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One brings the seizures, the other brings a warning.

“ _C_ _learly should’ve zigged instead of zagged, Soldat. Losing your touch, your panache, gone are the days of every step a calculated perfection. Just another rundown cowboy. Now that you’ve got your brain holding you back.”_

A gulp of air last second before Bucky succumbed to grey-tinged darkness, body weighed down by sopping clothes, white snowsuit meant to warm, soaked in freezing water, a thousand pounds dragging him under. Kicking reflexive, panic quieted by years of knowing how to stay alive. Cold slowing his motions, suit’s weight, boots filled heavy, taut strain to muscles, fighting the drag, struggling to think, keep his head, hold steady below the hard opaque sheened surface. Hands grabbing desperate, an edge searched blind, catch a finger, metal dragging a line indented scarring the ice a ceiling over his head. Eyes wide in murky water tracking that one bright spot bouncing above, the hole made when he fell, “Don’t lose it, don’t lose it,” mind pushing past the time ticking in his head.

Bucky graceful enough, survival innate, one metal finger snagged life-saving on ice’s edge. An image flashing rapid interrupting the darkness overtaking vision, Steve’s face, a smile patient enduring the softest of looks, muffled voice loving tender urging him on, “Don’t give up, don’t let go.” Pale skin so close in mind’s eye, a chest wide and firm and owning wrapped to his back, real in his head, warmth spread to flesh freezing in water churning sluggish, current and weight and blood slowed cold, dark waters below tug-of-war with hazy light above. Desperate holding on, electric shocks racing fingertip to shoulder chasing into his neck, a metal arm shoots pain more exquisite through a body’s nerves, intricate embedded. Breath held until lungs burned fire in the straining.

“ _Harder, Soldat, kick harder. This is no way to go, frozen stiff in a dirt-filled pond. Some fresh-faced child will find your bloated body in the Spring. We can see the headlines now, ‘The dreaded Winter Soldier ignominiously drowns in two feet --- excuse me, three feet of water.’ Shall we bet on who’s gonna take your place in the Captain’s bed?”_

“Fuck,” running clear and rasped and pissed through Bucky’s head. Legs scissored harder, pain tearing into his groin, the wound stinging in red-tinged water. One finger moving to two then three caught perilous on the hole’s ragged edge. Air running out last second, “Have to breathe, have to breathe, have to breathe,” obsessive repeated, the tremor shaking his hold, rattling bones and sinew fighting for life.

Energy spent, gone, muscles twitching erratic, one last kick gaining an inch, all he needed, head breaking the surface, frigid air hitting his face. Air sucked in gulping, a cough rasping chest’s tight burn cramping down to his belly. Thoughts grasping at what lay beyond the ice, pull free, find a gun, hope it works, time passing faster than a body could move, dead-weight soaked frozen half dragged from the pond. “Quiet, quiet, quiet,” metal fingers digging inch by inch into the ice, hauling himself up, panting breaths clouding vision, one thought driving every nerve and fiber, “I want to go home, I want Steve, I want home.”

Pinpoint light skittering on the ice dancing near his shoulder, bright red dot, stealing thoughts and words spoken internal. Bucky rolling over, a move seamless past and present, the Soldier’s instinct taking over, a gun pulled, aimed, cocked three seconds flat, laser sight matching one on one. Long breath steady head and hand quiet, cold shivers and pain-driven tremors. A figure in the open, close enough, tough shot, not for Bucky, not for Soldat.

Sixth sense telling eyes connecting, not needing to see for sure, the man stopped moving, same prep, same thoughts shared at that moment, mirrored image, a heartbeat passed in the wait. Breath held settling nerves and tremors and doubts. Both pulling the trigger simultaneous, Bucky digging heel to ice, forced push to slide an inch, a fraction, anything to slip beyond that red dot centered on his chest.

Flesh burning stench turning a gut, the bullet tearing skin, rib cracked stabbing, a stifled grunt the only sound allowed to escape, lungs burning from cold and pain and an image of Steve slipping distant. “Shit, shit, shit,” grounding in his head, scream held secret, clinging to his focus, slide, move, run, climb, get to a peak, a place agreed, safe and planned. Don’t stop moving. Words rapid-fire shoving despair into a corner of a mind fighting to get home. To Steve, get home to Steve.

Bucky’s breath staggered and panted, heart pounding to his temple, eyes rapt following his target, limp sliding dead-weight down the slope, landing splayed at frozen water’s edge. White suit marred dark, red pool slow-growing around a body motionless yards away.

“ _Two down, three to go. Kill one twice that’ll make the required six. Divisible by three. All good. Get moving.”_

The shiver chasing coarse down Bucky’s body as much for the Voice as for muscles tensed cold, water-soaked clothes iced stiff against his skin. Time passing too fast, response too slow; roll to his belly, drag across tenuous surface to retrieve the rifle. Hard to swallow, hard to think, pain tearing side and leg, a limping scramble up the bank, blood’s swatch following his climb.

Don’t look back. Steps staggered at first, the rifle helping balance, a sniper’s sense warning tense, pick up the pace; body’s revolt, stride’s burn chasing calves to thighs, the ache settling in his balls. A need to run, out-pace, hide, find cover egged on by the Voice and own thoughts craving arms encircling safe. Steve’s whisper before mission’s start hot spoken to skin tender, tugging him forward, “Don’t die out there, I’ll never forgive you. I’ll fucking give all your cherished shit to Wilson, so you damn well better come home.”

Too tired, too pained to laugh, Bucky latching desperate to the memory, one foot dragging behind a step stronger, not watching the red-stained tracks in his wake, one goal driving him on, get to the top, the rendezvous, radio’s signal could rise above the mountains surrounding. One step closer to Steve.

“ _That blood trail’s an open invitation, like some wounded rabbit, hopping wild across the Tundra. A far cry from your glory days of anonymity.”_

Steps heavy laid leaving footprints red-tinged uneven, bright crimson crawling down a leg, bare foot sliding in a boot filled with blood. Steve’s mothering an echo chiding, “You should wear socks, it’s not the 40’s anymore, we can afford them. If it makes you feel better, steal them from my drawer. You’ll ruin your feet.” Bucky’s laugh more of a breath uneven, foot slipping in the wet, thin air vice tight in lungs as he staggered through snow knee-deep. Sinew muscles fired ache every step, taut nerves begging to stop, to rest, to sleep, three minutes eyes closed, just rest for ninety seconds. Calculating Soldier not allowing a break, keep moving, “Rest when you're dead,” bold pounding in his head.

Red-gold light skimming hard-packed white landscape, sun dipping low, fired edge cradled by the horizon, a building dark stone with a steeple looming back-lit by sun’s rays. Inside draped in shadows, Bucky holding steps drop to a knee, rifle swung over a shoulder, a gun cocked and aimed, scanning the structure side-to-side, top-to-bottom, maneuvers coming natural, hope for abandoned, ready to fight if needed, not wanted, not while feeling like this. Worn and bloody, tremors growing heralding worse, head throbbing with his heart as a shadow danced peripheral vision, knowing it’s meaning, hoping to be wrong. His dead coming to life to conjure the seizures, “Please, not now, not now,” a whisper begging mercy, Bucky sure undeserved, “Maybe later, when I’m home, you can take me when I’m home.”

Efficient study of the ground, snowpack pristine, no tire tracks or footprints, dark windows fractured glass, the doors hanging crooked on their hinges, part open inviting snow and wind and an assassin seeking shelter.

Bucky daring a glance behind, three pursuers bold upright unafraid relentless on his trail, dark red filling boot tracks dissonant against the snow. Too close, too near, their faces ominous clear, dark-tinged goggles covering eyes, mouths hidden by a mask, sickening familiar. Breath caught shuddered at their closeness, their look churning a gut cramping anxious, history taunting a life trying to rebuild.

Need to move, get inside, make the call; Bucky staggered to his feet, head spinning with the change hard to see with vision swimming, blood still spilling, vomit souring his throat. Stumbled pace to the building metal shoulder slammed hard to the door, jerked push barely giving. Blood sticky warm oozing from wounds front and back, side and thigh worse with the strain, and step and breath. Shoulder forced against wood stubborn holding, a lean full-weight gaining an inch and then another, jaw gritted in a groan long and low as the door scraped across stone, enough, just enough for a body to fit between and slip silently within.

Stale odor wafting faint of dust, and stone and something spiced, hard to know in that moment. Mind searching old memories as he advanced, one cautious step at a time methodical pacing along the walls, circling back. Scanning left then right then left, gun raised two-handed muscles tense, red-dot skittering along stone and wood and glass, betraying hands shake, body’s tremor growing. An image flashing vague in a corner of his thoughts, thin shoulder pressed to his body, Steve by his side, ass-aching in a pew somewhere back in time, simpler and safe. Air painted stronger then, incense wafting in a cavernous space, same scent hinted here, metal urn overturned on the floor, contents spilled powdered random.

“ _A church, Soldat._ _This._ _I_ _s._ _Ri_ _ch._ _A wretch like you, here. Even abandoned it calls for some kind of retribution, doesn’t it? God’s big payback._ _How about a bet? Do you think He’s gonna get you with lightning, a flood or an avalanche? Wait, I know. Locust_ _s_ _, a swarm of those damn flesh-eating little hard-bodied brats._ _Lo_ _cust_ _s_ _. A_ _delicious_ _treat_ _I’d say,_ _except for the arm.”_

“Fuck.” Bucky not thinking about decorum, or locusts or God for that matter, although irony not lost; an assassin even former seeking refuge in a Church. Red sun casting a dying glow through window’s broken shards, Bucky finding furniture scattered errant, feet slipping own blood, awkward shoving pews to block the door, not the best of defense, something anyway. Last hint of light bathing an altar far end of the hall, sitting empty beneath the remnants of a scene religious, stained glass overhead spilling a blue-green glow slow fading as the sun began to disappear.

Sweat breaking sudden, raging throb of wounds, anxiety unraveling, an ache gnawing strange, heart’s pulse bounding staggered worse with every breath. Wet sheen cold, temple to neck, dripped unsettling down his back. Bucky hearing a noise, hard panting, maybe a whine, soft feral in ears blocked by a hood; hold still, assess the threat, seconds passed in listening three beats eyes closed before the sound registered in his brain. Heard before, ages past should’ve known, breaths pulled rattling in a chest torn open, lung leaking its air, hissed gurgle forcing a sigh, “Shit.”

“ _See, this is why your former handlers had you carry plastic wrap. Moments like this. So here we are, in your great revolt against all things Hydra, you are without wound sealing capabilities. Oh, wait, maybe that was your current handler who tossed that ratty piece of life-saving cellophane. His quote, ‘This is too dirty to put on my precious baby’s delicate skin.’ Correct me if I’m wrong.”_

“Jesus, shut the fuck up,” Bucky’s snap back defensive, the Voice not wrong, not right. The whole damn situation getting under his skin, not wanting to admit to thoughts running chaotic at times, ache in his heart past regrets, stubborn stance. His argument with Steve replaying too loud in his head, “I got this, no worries, in and out, easy.”

Knees giving out, collapse on a bench facing his barricade, fatigue compounding the weakness, blood dripping insidious, lungs pulling hard and harder searching for air. Three seconds passed meticulous, “One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand,” muttered eyes closed, needing three, a habit born in Hydra’s hold, anxiety’s demand, quiet a mind still held victim in dreams and stress and time spent distant from Steve.

A whisper, maybe a whine, hide it from the Voice, not logical at all, “I need, I need you, Steve, this was a stupid idea,” Bucky clinging to focus, time to act, get to the wound, cover it up somehow, something lost in a pocket. Hood shoved off, hair falling long, tangled matted, days on the run. Forearm’s wipe across vision blurring, the radio dragged soggy from pant’s pocket, hit against a palm, shaken and rapped, hard and harder still, silence the only answer. Rage telling let it fly, smash against the stone, heart sinking at the emptiness. Not hearing Steve's voice, his breath tickling an ear. Metal fingers wrapping the delicate device ready to crush it in a heartbeat.

“ _Is that prudent, Soldat? Your bear may be right around the corner, just waiting for your not-so-melodious tone.”_

Crushing fingers stopped, a whisper gritted quiet to stay hidden, answer stuttered through a jaw clenched tight, “I hate you. You know that right? More than I hate Wilson or asparagus or court-ordered therapists,” Bucky slow-releasing his grip, radio laid reluctant on the bench, “More than anything. I hate it when you’re right.”

“ _They’ll move on you soon, Soldat. They’ll wait for the dark,”_ the Voice offering the obvious, own thoughts repeating.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky’s mumble chattered, a shiver taking breath and nerves and heart as he sprawled across the bench. Struggled shedding of the parka, hampered by its weight frozen soaked, fingers cold fumbling the zipper, taking too long, frustration pulling a moan, a growl guarded close. Frigid air settling in bones, clothing stiff frozen, blood seeping from thigh and belly barely slowed by the cold, the tremors getting worse. Snow pants tugged off, get to the wound still spilling blood, stomach rolling with the movements, nausea racing up his gut, balance lost, get to the floor, hands and knees, bile tearing sour back of throat, across a tongue parched dry, spilled retching warm and wet on the floor between his hands, low groan rumbling.

A shadow’s dance in the corner, catching Bucky’s eye, a startle half-expected, his hair hanging soaked and long and covering his vision; still enough to see, to gaze suspicious at a gossamer form bright blue sheen, a wisp swirling nebulous in the wind, forming a face remembered long ago. A memory lodged forever, time and penance not erasing; his flesh fingers wrapping her throat, his dead eyes watching life fade from hers. “No, no, no,” a whimper, a laugh near hysterical, knowing what she brings, her wrath, unrelenting no matter a ghost or spirit or not seen by other’s eyes. Real enough for him, here and now, Maria Stark, the harbinger, revenge served cold repeated, the seizure gripping a body unwilling, muscles stiffening head to toe.

They open with a vision, an eerie sense of change, bright sparks morphing dark, that figure hovering untouchable; Bucky tried in the past, arms swinging wild and wide and begging for relief. Not that he deserved it, never in three hundred years, did he think that he deserved it? Forgiveness. “Take it like a man,” a phrase repeated to himself, not attributed to anyone in particular, maybe a handler, one particularly cruel, a name not ever known. No sense trying to think or plan or clear a space, better to go with the ghost, take a pale white hand extended through the veil fine-line life and death; place familiar if not comforting. Thoughts random every time, knees to chest finding fetal, a dream of safe and whole and Steve; never working in the end, nerves firing rapid, tendons stretched impossible taut, wants and will and hope for grace erased, aftermath of Hydra, a body drawn and quartered. A memory entrenched, torture stirred from hidden recess, vile secret never shared, not with Steve, not with anyone.

“ _You really should tell him everything, Soldat. Full confession as they say. Good for the soul. Black as it is.”_

Seizure’s wane feels like sleeping, not the good kind, rested and sheltered and warm wrapped in blankets, Steve’s arms snug to a belly, palms flat possession of a chest soft breaths matching. This sleep lay heavy, eyes stuck shut, body limp, sweat-drenched, at least no piss, none left after days on the run. “Could be worse,” wanders aimless through the fog of a mind’s struggled swim to wake. A ringing in Bucky’s ears fading quick, grateful for that, need to hear, scattered thoughts not forgetting his pursuers, still there, still trudging up the hill to knock impolite on church’s door.

Cold stone beneath a back lying flat, arms and legs splayed wide, eyes squeezed shut; Bucky’s words slurred, tongue thick, “Three seconds, just three more, I can do this,” foul taste lingering losing bile from a stomach long empty. Odd pressure on his nose, a squeeze, a pinch hard and mean and a lot like a sister; feels like a hand, palm covering mouth smothering his breath. Air gasped choking on vomit, not that he wanted to roll on his side, panic winning over, breath gasped, hand’s flail to knock aside his assailant, eyes pried open a slit, a peak, the slightest of side-long looks to see a tight-packed form bathed in a glow, dark red shimmering, their crouch uncomfortable close to his face. Bucky spitting mouth cleared, a mutter slow and garbled, “I hate when you do that.”

“Vstavay s zadnitsy,” Natasha’s Cyrillic crisp and sharp and more than vague annoyed, head jerked comical right then left, then hovering nose touching nose, eyes crossed unnerving.

His answer in Russian returning her stare; a post-seizure kind of weepy plea, a hope that Steve was near, right behind, somewhere close, “Moy medved, where is my bear?”

“Don’t moy medved me, vstavay s zadnitsy, get up off your ass. They’re coming for you. If they take you, kill you,” Romanova bathed in a befitting red glow, jabbing a finger intrusive and decisive to the wound in his side, a poke for every word, “There will be no living with that damn mope Rogers.”

“Hey, hey, hey, I’m shot there, cut it out!” Ragged rise to his knees, hard to lift a gaze, room spinning in sunset’s faint light, hair a curtain protective. Bucky wiping his mouth, spit and vomit back of hand frozen wet, cut short by a sound, boots crunching snow methodical approaching, his enemy not far beyond the doors.

“Shit, they’re coming, where’s Steve?” Tremor waves shaking bone and muscle, arms clutching his chest, Bucky glancing up, study Romanova's face slipping cold distant, eyes still a little crossed, her nose pressed to his uncomfortably close, even for her, for them, their past unconventional.

Thoughts scattered seizure's aftermath; nerves fraying raw with every second passing. Something wrong or strange or odd in her gaze, a question spilling fears, “Natalia?” A reach one finger to touch, to feel pale skin looming near, not there in the end, red glow fading fast taking her away. Bucky left alone, knees pressed in dirt, soothing self with arms gripping his chest, last light of day dipping gone


End file.
